


Standstill

by varsiity



Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Death, F/F, Gen, M/M, Murder, Prostitution, Suicidal Thoughts, Witchcraft, i don't have anything else to say honestly, i'm so fucking tired, my brain just flat out isnt working right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varsiity/pseuds/varsiity
Summary: It’s a few minutes past midnight, and Salem is alive.





	Standstill

 

It’s a few minutes past midnight, and Salem is alive.

 

Somewhere among the dark buildings, a Hex Master lurks, in a grey coat and knowledge of the Necronomicon filling their head. Ahead of the witch, the Doctor, an older woman with silver-grey hair, moves with purpose and grace beyond her years. 

 

The witch chants under their breath as the elderly woman ahead rounds a corner. By the time the words grow loud enough to reach the Doctor’s ears, it’s far, far too late. 

 

The Doctor hoped to save someone. She will never arrive at their house. 

 

Across town, the Escort leans against the wall of the local bar, clutching a champagne glass in one perfectly manicured hand. The neck of her dress cut low, bright-red lipstick gracing her perfect pout, her heels sharp and high. 

 

The Crusader next to her gulps as the other woman’s fingers trace across her shoulder. The champagne is forgotten as the Escort pulls her in for a kiss; they exit the bar together and cross the circle to the Crusader’s house.

 

In the Mayor’s bedroom, the latch of a second-story window softly clicks as the woman outside slides it open and pulls back the expensive curtains. The Janitor waits impatiently out back, holding a nondescript black bag and a mop slung over one shoulder, impatiently checking the time on his watch every few seconds. 

 

Silence, soon broken by a muffled gunshot that rings out across town. The Mafioso holsters her revolver and beckons her companion up. Clean and quick. The mess is minimal.

 

On the porch of House Number 12, the door closes behind the Serial Killer as the man strides into the house of a Vampire. The Lookout in the front bushes watches, clutching binoculars tight in shaking hands, but sees nothing. There’s no knife at the murderer’s belt; tonight, he takes his shoes off and slips into his boyfriend’s bed. 

 

The man sighs into the warm arms that wrap around him. One night - just one night of peace.

 

The Coven Leader’s night is filled with something else - the sound of skin slapping against skin, the Consort’s soft gasps for more, more, harder, please. The other man’s face, flushed and beautiful, and the way he moans as the witch fucks him into a prostate-damned mess, the way he nearly sobs as he climaxes on once-pristine white sheets and the Coven Leader cums in quick succession. 

 

They clean up. The Consort dozes off. 

 

The Coven Leader looks at the other man, curled up a few inches away, and wonders if another night of this would be worth it.

 

Beyond the rusted gate of the town graveyard, a woman wearing an olive-green hijab stands alone on the top of a hill, long skirt swaying in a nonexistent breeze. Waiting. The church bell rings midnight, and in only seconds, the dark comes alive. 

 

Ghostly wisps in the night materialize into half-translucent figures with blue-tinged skin. They crowd around the Medium, whispering, voices merging together into a desperate crescendo. They all want to be heard. 

 

She sorts through them, their stories and secrets and desires. She only has time for the most important. The others will spend another night mute.

 

And out behind the church, out of sight of the rows of gravestones and the woman who speaks to ghosts, a person in a hoodie and jeans leans against the building. Nondescript. Unassuming. The earth in front of them shakes as their creation digs its way out.

 

The dead Vigilante, still holding her shotgun, a neat gunshot wound in her neck and blood covering her clothes. And the summoner sends the walking corpse on its way, hands trembling. 

 

Once it’s out of sight, they sink to the ground next to the building and bite back tears.

 

A stranger in his own living room, the Amnesiac thinks he might be all out of tears, searching through the same paperwork as always. Documents that might hold a clue - something, anything, nothing. He barely knows his own name. Sounds that don’t fit together like they should. 

 

Memories come back in bits and pieces, never quite enough to complete a piece of the puzzle. Glimpses through a foggy window. Shards of glass that will never again be an intact pane. He opens another file, resigns himself to another sleepless night.

 

Watching, waiting. The Guardian Angel sits on the rail of a balcony. They’re dead - they know this much. Dead.  (It hurts less if they make it seem normal, try to forget the sight of their own corpse on the ground.) 

 

Dead - but the Hypnotist isn’t. She’s so full of life that it almost overflows. 

 

There’s movement three stories below them, and their eyes flit to watch a dirt-covered corpse shambling across the cobblestones to the Hypnotist’s home. The person, the creature - has a gun. The Angel stands, stretches lazily, spreads ghostly wings and flies.

 

The Werewolf remembers, in painful detail, every second of what happened in the woods eleven years ago. When he was seven years old, playing in the forest with a friend, oblivious to the vicious beast in the bushes. And then, minutes later, kneeling over the corpse of a childhood friend, bite marks in his own neck. 

 

The wounds healed overnight. He runs his hand over the scars on his neck. The moon is full, tonight, not a cloud in the sky to mask it. The night is like velvet, and it pulls him in.

 

He feels nothing but shame; the transformation begins.

 

The Jester is alone in their own home, but far from alone in their head. They won’t be visited tonight, whether that’s a blessing or a curse; a blessing, they finally decide, because interlopers only make it worse. There’s a gun under their pillow. There’s a chorus of voices in their mind as they take it out. 

 

Hours slip away, and they hold the pistol, brushing slender fingers over the polished metal. Hoping, desperately, for quiet. Maybe nothing will bring them peace.

 

And there are others - of course, there are others, too many to name, too many to list. Other towns, too, just like Salem but masquerading under different names, different faces. Some even keeping up a shaky guise of kindness.  _ The Trials are your friend, _ they whisper, all creaking plywood and cracked stone.  _ Trust. You must have trust. You must have faith. _

 

And the Werewolf trusts, trusts in the moon to one day bring him peace, that soon someone will come along with aim good enough to make sure one shot can bring him down. And the Medium trusts, in that day in and day out, the spirits will come - taunting, begging, always needing  _ more.  _ And the Serial Killer trusts, in the grip of someone else’s arms, lying in bed with something supernatural and trying to believe it’ll all end up okay. 

 

And the Jester and Amnesiac and countless others had trust, a long time ago, before the damned trials stole it all away and replaced it with something bitter and toxic that grows like a poisonous weed inside someone’s hollow chest when they no longer have faith.

 

But at least that’s better than nothing - and at least the activity of murder and bloodshed and despair is better than a town even emptier than the faces of its residents. 

 

The world spins, and Salem’s night drags on.


End file.
